Sunday, June 18, 2017

Letter To Fortune

The alley giddy with needles, chamomile soap,
the old notes in hard pressed script. Four marbled strays remain,
everything is ordinary.

I write from under the tree where we met that strange blooming fall.
Do you remember me? In the ginkgo’s curling shadow, I was the one made small.
Though early, dusk comes quickly, still. I am traveling. The voices all spill into corners. 
My limbs are a mystery. It is exactly what it sounds like. I have never left.

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